


The Demon of Hell's Kitchen

by DJClawson



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dogs of War, Foggy is a badass lawyer, Multi, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8852284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJClawson/pseuds/DJClawson
Summary: It seems like everyone in Hell's Kitchen has a story about their own personal Devil.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).



> Request:
> 
> "I just rewatched the fourth episode, 'In the Blood', where Matt basically uses the fact he doesn't need to see to know where his enemies are and thus has no need for light to absolutely terrify the Russians who took Claire.
> 
> Give me Matt as the monster in the shadows. Give me people afraid to turn off the light because the dark is where the Devil hides. Give me criminals terrified of things going bump because most of the time it's a cat... but when it isn't...
> 
> Make me afraid of the Daredevil of Hell's Kitchen because he's the thing nightmares fear."
> 
> Anything with this sort of thing. Outside perspective on Matt and how utterly terrifying he actually is."
> 
> Thanks to Zelofheda for her tireless efforts as a beta.

 

“So I thought it was a cat, of course,” Reggie said to the crowd that was slowly gathering. “My sister’s apartment building has a shit ton of those things in the alley. Some old lady keeps feeding them so they keep coming by.”

 “But it wasn’t a cat, huh?” Felix said, resting his beer on his knee.

 “Fuck no.”

**************************

_This thing might have knocked over the trash can, but it was definitely bigger than a cat. And a lot faster. City cats were hesitant when approached. It was big, and angry, and moving fast now that it was off the fire escape. Two boots hit the ground and it uncurled itself and Reggie realized this was not a thing but a person, if the Devil could be called a person, but people didn’t move like that._

_“Um, hey,” was his stupid response, his other being to pat his back pocket, right over the bags of molly. Like he needed to give it away. But he didn’t run; he’d heard bad things about people who ran._

_The Devil turned his head just a little bit, like it wasn’t quite right on his body, like in the Exorcist or something but in a different direction, and his horns (it was a he, probably) were further highlighted in the moonlight behind him._

_Reggie was usually cooler about dealing with sketchy people for a living, as his profession required it, but his nerves were failing him now. “So, uh, are you lookin’ for – “_

_Looking for a place to put his fist, apparently. The Devil appeared to apparate from across the alley to right in front of him, with straight-up evil magic, and landed in just the right place to punch him in the gut. As Reggie keeled over the Devil caught him with a steadier hand than should have existed in a person and grabbed him by the throat, hurling him against the brick wall behind him, which was unexpectedly sharp against the back of his skull._

_“We talked about this,” the Devil said, and pulled the ecstacy out of the back pocket with his other hand. He found the tablets in the change purse of his Reggie’s wallet, too._

_“Come on, man – “Reggie was about to explain that the drugs were good for treatment of depression, because he was stupid and about to run his stupid mouth off, but fortunately for him the Devil interrupted him._

_“I won’t be so nice next time,” the Devil growled, and released the grip on Reggie’s neck just long enough for him to recover, think it was over, and be taken by complete surprise by the punch to the face._

**************************

“And I had to take myself to the hospital,” Reggie said. “After I laid there for two fucking hours apparently. No one did shit. How I got these.” He held up the tips of his fingers, still wrapped up from frostbite. “For seventy bucks worth of e. I could have fuckin’ died out there.”

“Yeah, I bet you get lots of sympathy cards for your fuckin’ fingertips,” Dalton shouted from across the room, which got a mild round of laughter. He approached the bar, signaling for a refill on his beer. “You think you’re a hotshot? ‘Cuz you got slapped around a little?” He was hamming it up a bit when he drew back his leather vest and rolled up the shirt underneath to reveal a long horizontal cut across his stomach, and the healing holes from where the stitches had recently been removed.

“Thought the Devil didn’t use knives,” the bartender said. “Thought he was more of a bat guy.”

“It wasn’t his knife,” Dalton explained.

**************************

_It was a completely calm night, and Dalton was finishing up his business of doing reasonable (and legal) things that would satisfy anyone’s condition of being a job. Sometimes people just needed a little talking to. It was good for them, especially those uppity kids these days._

_He’d never gotten a good look at the Devil – never had that pleasure, and everything online was not exactly well-lit or in high def – but he got his chance when he turned around and the Devil was standing between Dalton and his van, in his red suit and evil eyes The parking garage was pretty well-lit, so he could see every inch of what some people called a costume and some people called a hide, but that didn’t make him feel better. He was more concerned with the man who dressed himself up in it and made things generally unpleasant for people in Hell’s Kitchen. Here he was, out of the shadows, unafraid of the light – or security cameras – and seething through his teeth._

_Dalton pulled a knife because it was his instinct. It was showy, intentionally, and he’d invested in some Damascus steel because he liked the way it shimmered when he was showing it off and because he’d got a deal on it, and it was two centimeters below the legal limit of concealed carry of a sharp weapon in New York City._

_The Devil didn’t look directly at the knife, and didn’t sound impressed. “Really?”_

_“Worked on freaks before,” he said, when he really meant tweakers and winos. Nobody on this level. Nobody who sounded this sober._

_“You got that from a catalog.”_

_“No I didn’t.”_

_The Devil smiled. “It came from a catalog.”_

_“That’s bullshit, the dealer said – “_

_“He lied.”_

_“Works fine anyway,” Dalton said, while the Devil seem distracted by arguing over the origins of his very big (and expensive) knife, and he thought he had him, too. He saw the knife go through, anyway, and make a decent dent in the Devil._

_Again, the Devil didn’t look down at his wound, just grinned, and effortlessly pulled the knife out. When Dalton looked down to check if it had drawn blood, he saw only his own, because the Devil was quick in his work._

_“I saw what you did to that kid,” the Devil said, not removing the knife even as Dalton grabbed the gloved hand around the handle. “Pound of flesh.” He tore it out, and Dalton wailed. “You’re lucky I kept it to a surface wound. Will still bleed a lot, though.” He stabbed the knife into the side of Dalton’s van. “I would hurry. Not wait for an ambulance.”_

_And then he lept up on the car, grabbed the beams from the stairwell, and hoisted himself up to the floor above as if he were weightless._

 **************************

“Doc said I lost almost half my blood,” Dalton said, letting his shirt fall back down. “Four pints. Told me it was impressive.”

“What, that the knife didn’t just get stuck in fat?” Felix said, pointing to Dalton’s sagging beer belly. “Sounds like all he did was almost give you free liposuction. Maybe you should have asked him to hang around, finish it off.”

“Fuck you,” Dalton said to the laughter of the crowd. “You think because he put your cousin in a coma, that somehow makes you a tough guy?”

“He threw him off a building,” Felix corrected. “The fall put him in a coma. But that’s not the really fucked up part. The fucked up part is what he said when he woke up.”

 **************************

" _There were two of him,” Felix’s cousin said, shivering in the ICU as he tried to go over the story with his lawyer again. He wouldn’t talk about the Devil unless at least two people were present, and the nurse didn’t even count. “A black one and a white one. And I don’t mean a black guy and a white guy. I mean a guy who was black and a guy who was all in white. He split himself in two.”_

_“You said in your statement to the police that you had been hung upside down at this point,” the lawyer reminded him. Blood was rushing to your head. Are you sure your vision wasn’t impaired?”_

_“I know what I fucking saw! That guy was not human. He said he could read my mind. He said – “ His face contorted in an ugly way when he held back sobs. “He said he wanted to hurt me. He enjoyed it. I think he was laughing. And he had these claws – “_

**************************

“Okay, that part is bullshit,” said the fat suit at the end of the bar, who drank free because he’d bailed out the bartender, the bartender’s wife, and the bartender’s daughter, all on separate occasions, and just about everyone at the bar had his business card in their wallet if they knew what was good for them. “Daredevil doesn’t have claws.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what my cousin said,” Felix reminded him.

“Yeah, when he was pumped full of morphine and fresh out of a coma. With I’m guessing at least some head trauma?” the lawyer said. His name was Frank or something. He also had two cousins who were 98 percenters and showed their face around when they were in town, so that gave him further cred, which was the only reason Felix didn’t deck him right there. “Not a reliable witness.”

“Oh, and you know better?” He took a step forward, but Sweaty Lawyer Dude wasn’t intimidated.

“Uh, yeah. You think Frank Castle is the only idiot vigilante I’ve known?”

Oh shit, right. This guy had represented Frank Castle, and almost _gotten him off_. Every freak in a mask was probably hitting him up.

“He can punch, I’ll tell you that,” the lawyer said. “He once punched me when he was bleeding to death. And unconscious. But I can also say that he didn’t do more than that because he didn’t catch me _doing anything_ he wouldn’t like.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the Devil of Hell’s kitchen loves lawyers.”

“I’m _positive_ he thinks it’s a very honorable profession,” he said. “And that he has well-trimmed nails.”

**************************

“You told them I have well-trimmed nails?”

“Maybe I didn’t go into your whole cuticle routine,” Foggy said as he removed his smelly shirt – it was always ruined by a prolonged visit to that bar but he’d needed a night off from Josie’s – and entered the bedroom. Matt was stripping off his armor, which he put in a plastic bin in the corner, so it at least wouldn’t be immediately visible to whomever walked in while it was drying out. “But you are well-groomed for a demon.”

“Nobody said I was a demon.”

“Well, not tonight,” Foggy said. “So how much of their stories were true?”

Matt shrugged. “Probably all of them?”

“You split yourself into two people? Or was he seeing double?”

“That was Claire.” Matt removed the last of his gear and put on his pajama pants. “It’s a long story. The guy worked for Fisk so ... stuff happened. And that other guy – the guy who roughs up people who don’t pay mob protection – he wouldn’t have bled out. It was surface at best. He was being dramatic.”

“And the knife was from a catalog?”

“I’ve never read a catalog for myself,” Matt said as he wiped his face off and sat down on the bed. “But the handle was fake wood carved to look like a bald eagle, so yeah, probably.”

Foggy stifled a giggle. “And where was I?”

Matt shrugged. “Don’t remember. But the guy in the coma, that was a while back. I do remember that you and Karen were super hungover the next morning.”

“That describes a lot of mornings.” He climbed into bed and kissed Matt. “And I think it’s going to describe tomorrow morning, because I don’t know _where_ Karen is.” She had wanted to go drinking, but she drew the line at places that were openly hostile to women. She had said she would be back late. “I think we might be terrible people.”

“Why do you go to that place?”

“To keep tabs on you, apparently.” Foggy buried his face in Matt’s side, which was harder than the pillow, but warmer. “And ... free drinks ...” He yawned. “’Cuz it makes me feel like a badass.”

Matt stroked Foggy’s hair. “If you wanted to push someone off a roof, I could probably arrange it.”

“Someone who deserves it?”

“Of course,” his partner said. “Who do you take me for?”

 

Finis


End file.
